All The Unsaid Things
by Zagzagael
Summary: Can a "threesome" get the boys to admit things they'd rather keep hidden?
1. All the Unsaid Things

It was a little bar in yet another backwater town. Set on the edge of nothing and with more of the same stretching out beyond it. A seemingly endless sea of same same same. Sam groaned. Dean had the Impala idling, pulled up onto cracked asphalt, against a broken chain link fence, some sort of dilapidated ruin of a house on the other side. A weak yellow light illuminated the early evening.

"C'mon, Dean, do you really need a draft this bad?" Sam was whining.

His voice was scratching on Dean's flesh like ragged fingernails. It was irritating. He killed the engine. "Yeah, Sammy, I do. I need to get the hell outta this car, I need to unwind, I need to watch some skanky bar babes dance to jukebox music. I need to kick your ass at pool." He looked over at his brother. "I just _need_. Dammit."

Sam nodded and pushed his lanky body up and out of the seat and shut the car door quietly behind him. "Okay." At the very least, they had just finished the job, hadn't rustled up something new, the motel was paid for through the end of the weekend. There was much worse things than indulging Dean's love of the dive. Indulging his _need_. Sam sucked on his lower lip, Dean needed something and he was bound to deliver. Bound. He followed him into the bar, marveling, as he always did, at the sweet swagger Dean seemed to pull straight up out of the earth beneath his feet and into his bones.

The inside of the bar was everything the outside promised it would be. Blue collar guys playing pool and darts. Couples old enough to know better sliding around on bar stools, flirting drunkenly, and small tables dotted here and there with more of the locals looking to just tie one on. A typical Friday evening in small town America, Sam mused. They ordered beers, deciding against what was on tap, went with bottles, and sat backwards on the bar stools, watching a smallish dance floor in the corner.

Dean nudged him with an elbow, "What did I tell you? Dancing bar babes." And so there was. Dean was as smug as though he'd ordered the blue ribbon special and here it was on a platter. Sam nodded.

A lone female figure moved in perfect distracting time to a classic rock tune queued up on the ancient jukebox. No cds here, this was the real deal with 45's and punch buttons. Sam smiled despite it all. The brothers sipped in unison and began to relax.

They ordered another round and this time Dean added whiskey chasers and Sam kept quiet because he was being entertained hugely by watching the solo dancer, vintage tunes notwithstanding. Low slung jeans, cowboy boots, a teasingly tight tank top. Waist length hair swinging free, tanned arms, long legs. She was very much in her own world, moving with a sinuous grace that spoke to every male part of him, she was animalistic and yet elegant in the way of a ballerina. He didn't think he'd ever seen anything even remotely like her in all the bars he'd ever been in.

He leaned over into Dean's shoulder. "She's amazing, isn't she?" He was surprised to hear that his question sounded as though he needed reassuring.

"Hell yeah she is. If I didn't know better I'd say she was something other than human, but nope, all girl. Good ole' American girl pie."

"Classy," Sam said and sat back and at that moment she looked up and caught his eye.

A quick flash of caution and then confusion followed by distinct interest. He watched her look from him to Dean, then back to him and her beautiful face broke into a smile. She put out her hands and beckoned to them. Both of them.

"This is not normal, Dean," Sam whispered.

"Define normal. I'm dancing." He stood and placed his beer on the bar.

"Really?" Dean never danced, or at least not unless he was supremely well-oiled. Sam tossed what was left of his whiskey back, indicated two more and watched Dean make his way over to the corner dance floor.

The woman stood, hips swaying, holding out her hands and Dean took them in his own and then swung her up against his body, an arm snaking around to place his hand on her lower back, bending her in perfect time. He could dance; Sam knew that, he just didn't dance. Often. And watching him move was almost as much fun as watching the girl had been. Dean possessed perfect rhythm and instinctive reflexes and he was beautiful, Sam could see that without having to be told.

He nursed his whiskey to hide his grin.

After another two dances, Dean wove through the tables and back to the bar. The girl danced on.

"She's the dancing energizer bunny, I'm telling you. Sorry she doesn't seem to have a kid sister, Sammy." He was sweaty and standing very close. He smelled of high octane masculinity and Sam breathed it in deeply and Sam breathed it in deeply, his internal engine turning over. "Let's buy her a drink and sit over there," Dean said, motioning to the bartender and Sam stood, stretching his arms out.

"I'm game."

"I love that about you, dude. You're always game." He grinned widely and Sam felt a deep surge of protective love for his brother.

"To the ends of the earth, Dean," he whispered and followed him back through the tables and into the corner.

They sat down and Dean indicated the long neck to her and she came over and sat backwards on a chair, breathing a bit heavily, and using the cold bottle on the back of her neck between deep pulls.

"Do _you_ dance?" she asked Sam.

"Sure," he said and rose and offered her his hand and didn't turn to see Dean's face but led her out onto the scraped lino and pulled her into his arms. The weight and shape of her femininity up against his chest rocked him, the sway of her hips against the long muscle in his thigh rolled him. He held her tight and she let him for the entire song, then she pulled away and went back to her solitary moves. Sam mirrored her and was surprised when Dean joined them, the three moving in a tight circle of gyrations and raised arms and swinging hips. The song ended and Dean moved to the juke and fed a handful of quarters into it before turning back to them. Groucho Marx eyebrows. Sam laughed.

A toe-tapping pop number form the 60's, a hard rock 70's shaker, and then a slow ballad. She moved up into Dean's space and twirled her arms around his neck, Sam sat and watched as Dean moved her in time, both hands firm on her hips, and kissed her thoroughly. Another slow dance record dropped onto the spindle and she unwrapped herself from Dean and pulled Sam back onto the floor. He was surprised but found himself hungry for her mouth when she lifted her face to his and kissed him. He was so much taller than she was and with both hands on her back he pulled her up and against him.

Then they sat back down at the table, where Dean had ordered another round of beers and whiskeys and unbelievably, the two of them were soon tangled in chairs and legs and the table, taking turns nipping at her lips and earlobes and collarbones, hands sliding on the soft skin of her, up under the tank top, against the hard muscles of her abdomen, down the flexing muscles in her thighs. It was seriously freaky, but Sam decided there was much more freaky things in the world than he and Dean both necking with the same girl at the same time and when he brought his fingers up to the edges of her jaw, where Dean's own fingers were, he felt a jolt of human lightning move through him until Dean moved his hand.

"And another round down. Sammy, your turn?" Dean said, his voice husky and Sam nodded and took the empties up to the bar.

The bartender was leaning against the sink, washing out glasses. He looked up slowly at Sam. "You two boys have to take that out of my bar." He held up a hand. "Don't get me wrong, I'm happy as hell for both of you, but you know the saying 'get a room'? Well, get one."

Sam nodded. "Sorry. I hear you. Can we get another round before we, uh, get that room?"

The older man weighed this and finally nodded. "And then you're outta here. It's closing time, anyway." He called out Last Call before taking Sam's money.

-----------------------

In the car, Dean drummed impatiently on his thigh, on the steering wheel, on the seat between them, on the dashboard. "Dude, you are so cock-blocking me. You're supposed to be acting my wingman."

"Your wingman? What about you acting my wingman?"

"She wants me, Sammy."

"And that means she doesn't want me?"

"Right. She wants both of us." He waved a dismissive hand.

Sam shrugged, non-committal. "Why not? We're hot. Besides, she's sure acting like she wants both of us."

"Yeah, but that's just....ew, no. Isn't this backwards? Aren't two chicks supposed to pick up one guy? You are seriously cramping my style. I'm going to drop you back at the hotel, not sure why I didn't think of that earlier."

"Too late, bro. We're here."

They had followed her out of the parking lot and out onto the country highway, until she turned down a street lined with sagging bungalows and old farmhouses. She parked and Dean, out of instinct, backed in the Impala. "Damn," he whispered. "Fine."

They got out of the car and she was seated on the hood. "This is sweet," she said, patting the hot steel. "And it feels, oooh, nice."

Dean laughed and looked across at Sam who just raised both eyebrows.

"That right?"

"Mmmmm....C'mere, both of you," she purred and Dean moved in between her legs and Sam hoisted himself up beside her, his arm around her shoulders tangling with Dean's arms.

"Now, before we go inside and you both get your minds blown," she laughed wickedly and Sam got hard instantly, "I need to know that we're going to play this my way."

"I'll play anyway you deal the cards, baby," Dean said and kissed her deeply. Sam leaned over and buried his face in the bend of her neck, his ear pressed against Dean's forearm.

She pulled back and looked at Dean through her eyelashes. She reached out and grasped Sam's chin in her hand, her thumb rubbing hot circles at the corner of his mouth. "Okay, then. Kiss this guy."

Sam almost laughed out loud at the look on Dean's face.

"Sweetheart, that guy is my brother," Dean said.

She shrugged and pulled Sam down to her and kissed him. "And?"

Dean stepped back, away from her, away from the situation. "And? And? And that is twisted and we are _not_ playing. Sam, get in the car. No tail is worth this."

-----------------------

Silence in the car as they pulled away, the girl standing, mind-blown, in her driveway and Dean punched it through the gravel and back out onto the pavement. He rolled down the window and leaned his head out. After they passed the bar and were heading into town, Sam began to laugh.

"You got a sick sense of humor."

"It's funny, that's all."

"Yeah, it's a laugh riot."

"You don't see something funny in how fearless you are in every other thing we could ever come up against, but the idea of kissing a guy..."

He held up a finger. "'Brother'."

"...scares you like a little girl with a bogeyman in the closet."

"Yeah, speaking of closets, got something you want to tell me, Sam?"

"I'm not gay, Dean."

"But you're totally willing to mack on a dude."

He shrugged. "Not just any _dude_, dude."

"I am so not going there. Let's just shut the fuck up until tomorrow, okay?"

After another silence. "Bit of blue balls, huh?" Sam snickered.

"Thanks to you."

"Hey, point that finger right back at yourself, Dean. I was willing."

"Yeah, about that. When did you get all down with the group sex? Tell me you were not flying your freak flag at Stanford, tell me that, please."

"_My_ freak flag. Who exactly here did twins?"

"Totally different thing, Sammy. Girls? See the difference? So?"

Sam shrugged. "I don't kiss and tell. And I'm not saying I have or I haven't, but I'm not scared of it either. Big bad demon slayer and you're scared of a kiss."

Dean looked flabbergasted. He took both hands off the wheel to gesture impatience. "Again. Brothers? You're seriously scaring me here, Sam."

"You're scared of something, that much is true." He turned away from Dean, watching the sleepy town pass by outside the window, wondering why he was pushing him so hard, wondering about horizons and vistas, paths taken and paths not, wondering why no one had ever said just no, as though it were so obviously no, no the moon isn't made of cheese, no the sun doesn't rise and set, no ice doesn't really get so cold it feels hot, no no no, and in addition to all that, no, you don't consider your brother. All the unsaid things. He sighed and rubbed a weary hand across his face.

-----------------------

Dean actually took a shower and Sam undressed, crawling into bed, comfortably altered, letting his big body relax into the sheets, the cheap mattress holding him in its broken coiled clasp. He laced his fingers behind his head and lay on his back, listening to his brother in the shower, playing the evening over in his mind. Coming up against a door that he had never, until tonight, considered opening. Opening even a crack.

Dean came out of the bathroom and headed straight for bed. Drunk and horny, Sam smiled to himself. He snapped the light off and they lay in the dark listening to one another breathe. Finally. "I am scared, Sam."

Sam held his breath.

"Scared if I," he paused, "that if we," another pause, "that I won't be able to stop."

Sam nodded to himself in the dark and lay awake for hours before tumbling into a dreamscape where he stood on the edge of a wild, storm-tossed seashore waiting for the ocean to rise up and embrace him.


	2. crack! alt ending

_They had followed her out of the parking lot and out onto the country highway, until she turned down a street lined with sagging bungalows and old farmhouses. She parked and Dean, out of instinct, backed in the Impala. "Damn," he whispered. "Fine."_

_They got out of the car and she was seated on the hood. "This is sweet," she said, patting the hot steel. "And it feels, oooh, nice." She wriggled suggestively._

_Dean laughed and looked across at Sam who just raised both eyebrows. _

"_That right?"_

"_Mmmmm....C'mere, both of you," she purred and Dean moved inbetween her legs and Sam hoisted himself up beside her, his arm around her shoulders tangling with Dean's arms._

"_Now, before we go inside and you both get your minds blown," she laughed wickedly and Sam got even harder than he already was, "I need to know that we're going to play this my way."_

"_I'll play anyway you deal the cards, baby," Dean said and kissed her deeply. Sam leaned over and buried his face in the bend of her neck, his ear pressed against Dean's forearm._

_She pulled back and looked at Dean through her eyelashes. She reached out and grasped Sam's chin in her hand, her thumb rubbing hot circles at the corner of his mouth. "Okay, then. Kiss this guy."_

_Sam almost laughed out loud at the look on Dean's face._

"_Sweetheart, that guy is my brother," Dean said._

_She shrugged and pulled Sam down to her and kissed him. "And?"_

For a long moment, time stretching itself as thin as flesh over bone, both men feeling their hearts still, Dean considered. He looked at Sam's face; let his gaze drift down to his brother's mouth, then back up to his answering look.

"Sammy?" he whispered. And his heart rate pounded through the top of his skull with the sound of his brother's name in his mouth.

Sam nodded slowly, the beats of his own heart counting each impossible second as Dean moved out from between the legs of the girl and sidled up against Sam's knees. The girl let go of his face and Sam took his arm from around her shoulder, both large hands dropping to his thighs, palms up, fingers in reposed supplication. He tilted his beautiful head away from her and the long column of his throat lay exposed, the streetlight playing off the thick tendon there and glinting across the drum tight skin over his clavicles showing above the worn collar of his t-shirt.

The hot metal hood of the Impala clicked as it cooled.

"Brothers?" whispered Dean and again Sam could only nod in answer, his voice lost in a shivering delicious anticipation.

With deliberation, Dean pressed himself up against Sam's knees and with answering intent; Sam pushed his legs open and then tightened his knees against his brother's thighs as he slotted himself between them. Hands moving now, finally freed, up to Dean's hips, index fingers hooking into the belted waistband of his jeans, thumbs pressing like brands below his hipbones. Licking his top lip, waiting.

Dean reached out and took Sam's face in both his hands, cradling, long fingers brushing against Sam's ears, his jaw line, thumbs ghosting the corners of Sam's mouth. Sam closed his eyes and Dean's cock jerked watching the fluttering of his thick lashes against his cheekbones. Expectation. Closing his own eyes, he leaned into the kiss, slanting his mouth across Sam's, pushing himself towards his brother, tasting salty sweat, beer and whiskey. Sam moaned his name through their closed lips and Dean fell forward, out of his skin, away from his arching back bone, into his brother. Soul of my soul, he thought and the line spun through his head, uncoiling, the words fish-tailing through his mind. His shoulders slumped and feeling him falling, Sam was suddenly there, his size, his strength, sliding forward on the hood, knees bent around Deans legs, arms coming up fiercely and wrapping Dean into a straightjacket of need and lust and love. Above all, love. Their mouths were locked, fused, tongues searching desperately. Dean dropped his hands to the edge where Sam's ass met the hood of their car and he pulled himself even closer against his brother's body, grinding his erection into Sam's heated cock, growling down, through his teeth, breaking the kiss, gasping out Sam's name like a prayer.

He brought a quick hand up to the back of Sam's neck, pulling at the long hair, pulling Sam's head back, exposing his throat again, then burying his face there, biting hard the thick muscle roped across the back of Sam's shoulder.

"Let's get the hell out of here," he said dragging his lips up the long length of throat, burying his tongue into the deep whorls of Sam's ear.

He answered with a turn of his head, finding Dean's mouth again, holding him fast and hard. Not letting go, ever. He broke the kiss and rubbed his forehead against Dean's, eyes still closed, tighter now, whispering wishes, breath skating across Dean's lips.

"Yeah," he said and slid all the way off the hood, searching out one of Dean's hands with his own, locking their fingers.

"Uh?" the girl stammered out. She was standing, hands in her back jean pockets, hip canted, watching them through slitted eyes.

"Thanks, Tammy," Sam said softly, Dean moving him to the car, opening the door for him.

"It's Tanya."

"Whatever," Dean said, walking back around the front of the Impala, past her.

"Really, though, thanks," Sam called leaning out the door.

"Fuck you. And fuck him." Her voice was quietly furious.

"Oh, we intend to," Dean said and climbed into the driver's seat, pulling Sam against him, waiting for her to sidestep out of his way before gunning the car out of the driveway and towards Home.


	3. And We Drown

He was outrageously drunk. Sam had come to pick him up after a garbled and unintelligible phone call, cut short with shouting in the background. The bar was just a three block stroll from the Motel 6 and Sam walked it quickly, pushing the door open and feeling his heart lurch to see Dean mixing it up with two figures. Not demons, two young businessmen from the looks of it. Sam waded into the brawl, swinging, reaching for Dean, and hauling him back with a handful of collar, pushing him to a staggering standstill.

Dean bent over, hands on his knees, breathing hard, then he straightened. "Thanks for nothing!" he shouted at all three of them, Sam and the two disheveled men.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Dean?" Sam hissed. Then turned and motioned apologetically to the two men. "I don't know what the deal is. I'm sorry. I'm taking him home now."

"You _should_ take him home. Your friend's a real asshole," one of them spit out, pressing tenderly at the corner of his bleeding mouth.

Sam shrugged. "I guess."

"And a serious creep to boot. Get him the hell out of here," said the other, using a napkin on the first man's face.

"Hey," Sam held up a hand, "I got it. We're leaving."

He turned back to Dean who was trying to wave the bartender's attention to himself. Sam rolled his eyes and grabbed his elbow. "C'mon, Dean. So not funny. We're going home."

"Home?" Dean slurred. "I wanta go home, Sam. Jesus, take me home."

And something in his voice enraged Sam to the point of broken tears, something in the way he rolled the words in his mouth, acknowledging that if anyone could take him home it was his brother. He breathed deeply and deflected. "What the hell did you do to those two guys?"

"Nothing. Just asked them what the gay sex was all about, you know, if it's better or worse than the straight sex."

They were outside now and Sam shook Dean by the sleeve, hard. "What?!"

"Oh, dude, don't shake me like that. Shit." Dean moved quickly to the edge of the sidewalk and bent, retching, towards the gutter.

Sam ducked quickly back into the bar, grabbing a stack of cocktail napkins and returned to the street. Dean was still bent and heaving. "Here, here," Sam murmured to him. One strong hand holding tight around the ball of his shoulder, he pressed half the stack of paper napkins against Dean's mouth.

"Fuck," Dean moaned, drawing the word out in one long exhaled syllable.

"You done?"

Dean nodded and moved up against Sam's side, his body tense and uncomfortable.

"Relax, Dean, we're going." Sam wrapped a long arm around his shoulders and propelled them both back to the motel.

Once inside the room, he fumbled his hand along the wall, looking for the light switch, and suddenly Dean was on him, kicking the door shut, pushing him hard against the wall, forcing his body up into Sam, knee to shoulder. Then he had his head tight between his palms and was kissing him and Sam kissed back, wondering, wondering, wondering.

But Dean pulled away, panting against Sam's collarbone. "This what you want, little brother?"

Sam licked at his lips, feeling an aching loss that started somewhere in the vicinity of the center of his chest. "I don't know. I don't think so. I really don't want anything, Dean."

"Now, that's not true. I thought you wanted me to kiss you."

"Dude, you were just throwing up in the gutter."

Dean slowly reared back, still trapping Sam with his thighs, the press of his knees; he swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Forgot about that. I am drunk drunk drunk."

"Yep. Don't apologize or anything."

Even in the dark of the room, Sam could see the dark blush move across Dean's face. "I gotta piss," he said and stumbled away, towards the bathroom.

Sam flicked the light on. He moved over to Dean's bed and pulled back the covers, plumped the pillow and sat heavily, hands between his knees, trying to find his way back from the strange kiss.

Dean was wearing only boxers when he walked out of the bathroom, veering towards the bed. Sam stood, moving out of his way, watching as he fell sprawled onto the mattress. He reached down and pulled the covers up over him, resisting the urge to tuck him in, letting the material float down and outline his body. "Sleep now, Dean," he said softly.

Dean rolled over onto his back. "Sammy?" he called to him and Sam leaned down into his voice. Dean reached up and effectively put him in a triangle neck hold and hauled him down on top of him.

Sam fought the hold, the weight an albatross around his neck, rearing back. He had been brought to his knees on the rolled edge of the mattress and it hurt. With both arms flat palmed against the bed to hold himself off his brother's body, he growled into Dean's face, "Let go."

"No."

"Fine." Sam unlocked his elbows and let himself fall to the side of his brother, wedging his thigh between Dean's legs, rolling his hips on top of Dean's, putting his weight into it.

Dean's fingers were keyboarding up and down his ribs, beneath his arm. Sam watched the digital clock on the table between the beds, red lights illuminating the minutes spent lying on top of his brother, both of them squirming around the place where their heated erections met.

"You put this in my mind, Sam. You did this."

"It doesn't work like that, Dean."

***

"Dammit!" Dean spit out, tossing his wallet down onto the small motel desk in their room. "I just had it, Sammy, and now it's gone."

They had spent the past quarter hour tearing the room apart, looking for a scribbled name and address.

Dean sank into one of the chairs and shook everything out of the wallet. Plastic cards, business cards, banknotes, the spare Impala key, a condom, no, two condoms, and a tattered piece of folded paper slid across the desktop.

Sam leaned down and fished out the folded paper. "This it?"

"No!" Dean grabbed for it.

"What is it?"

"It looks like a mile of mind your own business," Dean said, standing and reaching for it again but Sam held it over his head, well out of his reach.

Dean backed off; arms crossed angrily, the expression on his face injured.

Sam sat down on the edge of one of the beds and smoothed open the creased and folded and yellowed piece of paper on his thigh. "It's a Valentine's." His finger traced the childish scrawl, "_'Sam, be my Valentine. I love my brother. XOXOXOXO, Dean.'_ You drew me a Valentine Card."

"I was in the first grade."

"Yeah," Sam's voice had gone low, "I can see that." He held the paper up and tilted it slightly; the drawing was fading into oblivion. "Is this," he touched the picture gently, "you and me, holding hands?"

Dean shrugged. "Just give it back, okay."

"That's a lot of x's and o's. Look, there's a sun," petting, finger-tracing over the childish rendition of a smiling sun, "that's a pretty happy sun. You're, like, taller than me." His voice was catching now and Dean made another move towards him, but he held up a warning hand. "And, oh god, Dean. All these flowers, we're standing in like a meadow or something, and all these flowers are smiling, too. Look at how much we're smiling." He had begun to cry. "There are some trees. I think those are trees, could be telephone poles. But no house, huh."

"Sam," Dean whispered hoarsely, "don't. Just fucking do not."

Sam wiped a desperate hand across his face. He looked up at Dean and then away. He folded the paper with care, his hands were shaking. "We look pretty happy. That's good. Yeah." He was nodding. "That's good. And you carry this around in your wallet."

"No. I do not carry it around in my wallet. Bobby found it a few years back inside one of Dad's books..."

Sam handed back the folded square, fingers tented on his forehead, sniffing loudly. Dean took it and looked from the paper back to Sam; he tossed it onto the desk and went down on his knees. He buried his face in his brother's lap, his shoulders shaking.

Sam reached out for him and held him still. His voice was choked. "You're okay, you're okay," he murmured. He could feel, through the thin fabric of the t-shirt, how close Dean was to flying apart beneath him. "Come here. Dean, come here." He reached down under his brother's arms and coaxed him up onto his chest, lying back on the bed, wrapping Dean into his embrace, holding him fast against the long length of his body. One strong hand moved to the back of his neck, the other snaked around his waist. Using one foot on the floor for leverage, he rocked them and hummed softly against the side of Dean's head.

***

"This isn't a game for me, Sam."

"I know that, Dean."

"I'm not trying things out, trying something on, testing the waters."

Sam nodded. "Yeah."

"If we go there, we can't go back. We're _not_ going back. You got that, right?"

"Dean..."

"This already moves us into territory that, I don't know...people have been stoned to death for just thinking about what we're thinking about." He rubbed a hand across his eyes. "And I'm not even talking about the truly twisted aspect of this whole thing. You think we've kept secrets before? This is the fucking mother of all secrets."

Sam smiled shyly. "I thought I was the one who talked too much?"

"I'm over-thinking this thing, aren't I?"

Sam thought about it for a moment, then simultaneously shrugged his shoulders and nodded.

"Thanks for letting me do that."

***

"Sam?"

The whisper crossed the sea of space that lay between them, three am.

"Yeah. Dean," he answered, turning over on his side, pillowing his head on his arm and staring across the divide between the motel queen beds. Dean mirrored the movement, each looking at the other.

All the unsaid things between them had slowly but with certainty become unspoken promises of love and vows of loyalty.

"C'mere," Dean said softly and lifted the sheet.

And with not a moment's hesitation but with great care and intent, Sam moved out from under his own coverings, through the cold air separating the two beds, through the gloamy darkness of the motel room, shucking his boxers, pulling the t-shirt over his head, then dipping down, lowering himself beneath Dean's arm, into the heat, the promise, the ocean of possibility that called to him. With both hands, he reached out for this other body; this soul he knew as well as he knew his own. He pulled him into a fierce embrace and nuzzled his face against his brother's head, mouthed into the whorl of his ear, "beloved secret."

And with a deep, held breath Sam met Dean's lips with his own, and together, together, they sank into each other. One into the other, they descended.

***

Someone was kissing him awake. He rose up out of the depths, feeling the temperature rise as he kicked himself upwards through the black, then blue, then topaz light, into the morning, up and out of sleep and into Dean's arms.

"Hey," he whispered around his brother's mouth, through his lips. And in answer, Dean only nodded, pressing his tongue deep into Sam's mouth, sliding it warm and tasting of sleep and last night against his teeth.

He murmured as Dean's ear moved past his mouth, reaching for it with teeth and lips and tongue. Dean was laving from his own ear, down the long length of his throat, across the collar of bones, into his armpit, teeth pulling fiercely at the long underarm hair and Sam's surprised giggle became another moan. His head went back hard, mouth gasping open as Dean moved into the soft inside of his elbow and sucked bright red marks into the tender flesh there.

Then Dean was moving down his body, straddled knees carefully but purposefully moving across Sam's thighs, between his knees now and Dean knelt back onto his heels, strong hands beneath Sam's hips, pulling him forward against his own hips, into his erection.

Sam was already half-hard and his legs fell open, shoulders pushed back into the mattress, his eyes shuttered by lust, looking up at his brother. "You're the king."

Dean nodded, somewhere else, listening to his voice but not his words. Lower lip tight beneath his top teeth. Concentrating on feeling, on breathing. Sam reached out for both their cocks, wrapping his hands just there, grasping them together in his fists, tips of his long fingers pressing into his brother's flesh. He was rewarded with Dean's eyes slipping closed, exhalation long and low and Sam closed his own eyes, stroking the hard lengths.

"Oh, fuck. Sam."

"Right here. Right here, Dean."

Dean leaned down, one hand on either side of Sam's head, reaching for his mouth again, kissing into the corner of his lips. "Yeah, but where in Hell is here. Where are we, Sammy?"

Sam reached up and held Dean's face firmly. "I know you think I'm a cornball, but we're right where we need to be. I believe that."

And then Dean was kissing all the words and justifications into silence and Sam swallowed them down willingly and kissed him back. With a slow movement, all muscle and yearning bone, Dean slid both his arms behind his brother's back, slid his knees down the mattress, settled into the cradle of Sam's open thighs, whispering now, "We just don't need to talk about it anymore, huh?"

"No," Sam kissed his eyelids, his brow, across his temple, "we just don't."


End file.
